You Belong To Me
by silverluna
Summary: Later that night, following Peter's rescue, El and Peter discuss the events of the day, their marriage, and how El's picking up of the dry cleaning saved Peter's life. Tag to Season Two's "Payback".


Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Characters: Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke

Genres: Romance, Drama, Fluff, Short

Summary: Later that night, following Peter's rescue, El and Peter discuss the events of the day, their marriage, and how El's picking up of the dry cleaning saved Peter's life. Tag to Season Two's "Payback".

Author's Note: Hi! This is my first _White Collar_ fic. I'm a new fan to the show—ever since this episode, and since I loved the Peter/Elizabeth scenes in "Payback", I just wanted a little expansion on them. Hope you enjoy reading!

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated! Thank you. :)

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**You Belong To Me**

A _White Collar_ Story

by silverluna

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He wasn't hurt. It was the second thing she'd noticed, after taking in his face, throwing her arms around his shoulders, and kissing him as if this were their last day on Earth. He'd even smiled. Her relief doubled when she knew; she melted against him. Not a single mark on him. A miracle, she breathed to herself.

Peter, later that evening, walked her through the kidnapping as gingerly as possible. "I was most scared," he admitted quietly, "when I realized too late it was a setup." When the automatic was pointed to the side of face, when the criminal holding it grabbed his hands and relieved him of his weapon, when he knew he couldn't get himself out of the situation—not with words, or threats or violence or even just by running, that's when he'd felt the breath go out of him. Though he didn't tell her, he'd been caught up with a paralyzing dizziness when the black hood fell across his face, blanking out the streets of NYC. He felt as if he'd lost his footing and was falling into a hole. The tiny urge to yell, in fear or in warning, for Neal not to get closer, drown in throat.

Once in the van, he behaved, unable to see his captors, assuming their guns were aimed at him. They needed him alive, for now, but accidents happened. Their hands rough and strong, holding him down, keeping him down, cuffing his hands behind his back. This had been the most pain he'd experienced—other than the blow to his pride; they were not gentle or careful, and he was on his stomach, moved at their wills.

He spared her most of the details; the press of the barrel against the side of his neck until he was cuffed, the sweat bath he experienced as he fought to slow his breathing and steady his racing heart, the terrible consequence of having not told El he loved her in spite of her knowing, no matter what spat might momentarily separate their affections. He might never see her again—a second bout of irrational fear that had his breathing labored against the hood. None of this he said aloud, leaving her to guess what might have run through him as he waited for the van to stop. Though he'd been initially surprised and obviously taken—literally—off guard, the surface fear burned off as quickly as mist off the sun when his instincts took over. After all, a situation like this was nearly an inevitable risk—just as likely as ending up in a firefight or a standoff.

Even though criminals should know better, they didn't. That's why they were criminals.

Elizabeth wanted to tell now him they should avoid spats like the one that morning, but she guessed it would be impossible. Even the happiest couples had spats; the little things mattered as much as the big ones, even so. But she couldn't get her lips to form the words that had been perfectly poised yesterday night, possibly because she was still reeling over the longest day of her life. Her husband—kidnapped this morning—was now sitting at their dinner table looking weary but no worse for the wear. El breathed another silent grateful prayer.

"Did I ever thank you for picking up the dry cleaning?" Peter asked.

"No," Elizabeth replied with a small smile. "I don't think you did."

"Well, you know how they pin the ticket to the sleeve?"

She nodded, noting her husband's somewhat giddy words.

"That safety pin, that tiny piece of metal," Peter told her with a smile, "practically saved my life. It got me out of the cuffs, to start." He patted his pockets, found the bent metal, cool and sharp, and set it on the table in front of them. Elizabeth stared at it, breath sharp through her teeth. It looked like a heart, twisted, unfinished, but she laid her fingertips upon it.

"You kept it," El murmured, unable to take her eyes from it. She focused on its sliver of cool metal, how perfect a key it would make.

Peter nodded. "I considered that I might need it again. I had very few options when it came to usable weapons or tools." He could still picture meeting her on the street—her entire body relieved to find him unharmed. She seemed to be taking him in as if she needed to memorize his face, as if there could be a chance she would forget, and she looked hungry enough to jump into his arms and tear his shirt.

"Hi, Hun," El said, gripping his hands tightly.

"Hi, Hun," Peter replied, grinning and squeezing her fingers back. Those fingers, warm and strong, holding onto his for dear life. Then they'd kissed in the street like teenagers, uncaring who could be watching, kissed as if this was their last day on Earth. That was the moment Peter had felt safe, really and truly perfectly safe, when the last bits of fear and stress melted—in El's arms.

"I'm sorry I put you through that," Peter apologized, earning him a frown from his wife.

"Peter, please. I don't blame you—or Neal," Elizabeth told him. Her eyes looked wet. "You did what they wanted and they didn't shoot you." She couldn't get over how lucky they were—Peter had managed not only to survive—and apprehend his abductors—but had gotten through his unscathed. The worst thing she'd caught a glimpse of were the thin pink rings around his wrists were the handcuffs had bit in when they'd been waiting together in the late afternoon sunshine following Peter's rescue.

Peter's rescue. El felt another shiver trip through her body. They, as a couple, had had many talks about the dangers he—and even she—might be in, because of his job. Abduction, a distant possibility; more likely, she remembered with a barely disguised shudder, was death in the line of duty.

El looked up when she felt Peter's hand under her chin. The concern he was regarding her with made her feel silly; as if she were the one who had been missing all day long instead of him. She smiled, but bit her lip. "We had such a ridiculous tiff," she said. "And we left without—"

"El, I'm here," Peter reminded her gently. He looked as if he wanted to hold her, or feel her arms around him.

"I know," she sighed. "But it's like I was telling Mozzie, there are no small—"

Peter's brow furrowed. "Mozzie?"

Elizabeth smiled, hoping to diffuse this situation. She was planning to tell Peter the half-truths about what Mozzie had done for her, and what she had asked of Neal; surely, he'd understand on some level her desperation for his safe return. El hoped, anyway.

"He dropped by to comfort me," she said. "I was supposed to sit at home and wait, in case your abductors contacted me." His grasp, which had dropped to her shoulder, felt hot as fire. When she closed her eyes, all she could see was herself, fuming as she left that morning about Peter's never-ending absentmindedness. Why could he stay alert all night to protect a president or a diplomat but forget one of the many important but small details of daily life?

"How did you find out, about me?" Peter asked, shaking El out of her thoughts. She didn't fail to notice that he'd let the Mozzie issue drop, for which she was grateful.

"Your boss called me at work," Elizabeth replied. Her eyes unexpectedly filled with tears. "All he would say over the phone was that you were missing, and then I managed to ask him if I could come down to the office and he told me that was a wise idea."

Neither of them were speaking about it, and though Elizabeth had already mentioned not putting blame on Neal, there was still the unasked questions about how much of this was directly Neal's fault. Certainly, he couldn't have known what an old adversary planned, especially from a prison cell, or just who might be a target in another dangerous game. And they both knew that it was only because of Neal getting in contact with the FBI that any rescue mission had been set in motion at all. Right now, Elizabeth didn't want to test her husband's patience over what he might say that she had asked Neal specifically, behind the FBI's back, to do whatever it took to get Peter back. _Let him think I'm innocent in this whole thing,_ she thought, _just a little while longer._

Just because it might happen to be, unwillingly, Neal's doing to start the trouble in the first place, Peter knew that Neal had done his damnedest to secure a course of action which would get him free—and not just in the aiding to get him out of the cell.

Peter glanced down and noticed that El was still holding the safety pin, her fingers rubbing its edges. "Hun," he began, getting her full attention, "I always count on you to pick up my slack. And I know I have more slack—more forgetful moments—than you probably do. But I know it's not fair for me to take you for granted—especially when I owe you my life for stepping in and picking up the dry cleaning."

Elizabeth's tears spilled over. Yesterday, she was just doing her part in their marriage—as he'd said, picking up the slack. She knew that he would never snap, not even in a weak moment, that his job was far more important and far more demanding than hers would ever be. But yesterday it had seemed so trivial, and yesterday night she'd been fuming already at her husband's "lack of responsibility". She swiped at her tears with shaky fingers.

"I promise you I'll keep up my end," Peter continued. He swallowed hard, watching her cry, but didn't want to stop talking until he'd said what he should have said this morning. "I'll do my absolute best not to fall behind, but I just ask that if I do you remind me with what I'm lacking." He smiled, though it hurt him to see her cry. "And I'll get right on to repairing my errors."

Elizabeth dropped the safety pin back to the table and reached out for her husband's hands. She squeezed them tightly, and then felt, rather than saw, him interlocking his fingers with hers. She could only look at his eyes, focus on the sincerity of his words by the love for her written on his skin. She watched him, though he didn't seem aware of it, sigh again with relief—he was home. Home with her, where he belonged.

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The End


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